Up there with the smoke from a million chimney pots
They lived, their nighties smudged with specks of soot,
Weeping over your every sin, trotting
With you to school, inches above the ground, foot
Soldiers of the Lord.
Somehow yours sat beside you at your desk, unseen,
His cloud-soft wings closed like a prayer book,
Watching you mis-spell and stumble over words -
Your shadow, sewn to your feet,
Heavenly butterfly,
Guardian of your seven-year soul.
- Poem written by Mike Harding.
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Matt's journal.
Don't know how often I plan to write in here, but what's the harm?
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There is no ideal. Thus why man has dreams and illusions.
I'd gladly give up my own dreams for those with nothing left to dream of.
I'd gladly give up my own dreams for those with nothing left to dream of.